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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29047440">Insane Is Thy Name</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalBlueRoses/pseuds/RoyalBlueRoses'>RoyalBlueRoses</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Delusions, Demons, Dimension Travel, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fantasy, Hallucinations, Hell, Horror, Insanity, Love, Magic, Mental Instability, Murder, Origin Story, Original Character(s), POV First Person, POV Male Character, POV Original Character, Psychic Abilities, Psychological Horror, Psychosis, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Insert, Serial Killers, Sex, Swordplay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:21:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,068</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29047440</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalBlueRoses/pseuds/RoyalBlueRoses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Matthaias wasn't like the others. He couldn't connect to other people, he couldn't even pretend to be like one of them. Was he even human? Did he belong in this world, or was it the thing that did not belong to him? Matthaias slowly learns the truth as he slaughters those in his wake, the truth of his bloody birth and the hellish tale that spawned the new King of Hell into being.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Matthaias/Sarah</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This chapter is the beginning to a story that I have been working on since I was 13 years old. This is the re-written version, which I began to copy down into composition notebooks, then typed. I haven't yet decided how many chapters I plan to post here, because my goal is to publish it as a real book, and not just online. Let me know what you think, and we'll see what happens.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1985</strong>
</p><p>In the cold, deathly still hospital room stands a family over a withered man who lays upright in bed. All that could be discerned was a steady hiss of the machine that aided his breathing, the slow beep of the heart monitor and the hard swallow Joseph Kenney forced down as he gripped the shoulder of his son tighter. "It's me, Joseph. With my son Matthaias here to see you." </p><p>He motioned gruffly with his chin to his wife, Mary, who stood next to him holding his hard bicep tightly. She blinked and nodded nervously, her head of soft auburn curls bouncing as she encouraged the child to walk closer. The little boy had not moved from his grip, his widened eyes rapt as he watched his grandfather's own eyelids creak open and the weary, yellowed eyes settled on him. </p><p>"Matthaias. Good boy. Come here." The words croaked from his dry lips. The boy; who still still stared intently, inched closer to the bed. His parents hung back, looking on in concerned wonder. </p><p>"Yes, that's my Seed. Look at you, like looking in a mirror. Except mine seems not too kind these days." He said with a small chuckle, a pained smile. He reached towards Matthaias and ruffled his black, shiny hair that was cropped close above his pinkened ears. The boy did not flinch, he smirked; a small impish grin that in truth did match his elder's with the wry way it veered to the side in a sneer. </p><p>"How old are you, boy?" </p><p>"I am 8 years old. Sir." </p><p>His grandfather nodded, taking a struggling breath that rattled deep within the confines of his ribcage. </p><p>"Good boy. Now let me tell you a little something... Joseph. Might I be alone with my Grandchild ??" He questioned, almost with a tone of resentment. Joseph hesitated, gnawing his bitter chew tobacco in his cheek with a curled lip. He glared down at his son, narrowing one icy, slate grey eye. Matthaias smiled up at him, something that came rarely to the oddly quiet child. </p><p>"Fine. Be quick, old man." He spat, pushing on Mary's back as she looked back with lingering worry. The heavy door clicked shut. "What did you want to tell me, grandpa?" Matthaias asked, eager. </p><p>Harold Kenney smiled with that sly grin, his cloudy brown eyes crinkled at the corners. He took the boy's shoulder and his expression grew grim, the heart monitor's even paced beeps becoming more erratic as he pulled himself up to a more dignified position. Harold cleared his throat, with a rumbling, sick hack and coughed thickly. Matthaias looked on with some concern, not really knowing why the sound bothered him, or why the appearance of the thick black sludge travelling through tubes that ran up and down the bed unnerved him, much more as they became red with frothy blood, sprouting tiny bubbles that popped one by one as they grew. "Boy! Listen now!" He snapped to get his attention, causing the boy to perk his ears. </p><p>"...Now, I know that you may be too young to understand. Too coddled by those weaklings to see the truth! But, I will tell you this now while I still have time, and maybe when you are older it will make more sense. See, those two out there are scared. Scared shit-less of me, but you, my child, are not. Are you?" He shook his head a hard no, he wasn't scared. </p><p>"Good. Keep it that way. Do not be frightened of that which you cannot understand. Chase it! Follow it! And Destroy it! So that you can never be in it's control. That's how you will survive. On hatred. <em>Hasslich."</em> He hissed that last word out, eyes hard and glinting with the passion in which he spoke.</p><p><em>"Hasslich?"</em> The boy responded, in a questioning tone. "Yes, yes, good boy! Hasslich. It means hatred in our native tongue. Remember. Don't let them make you soft and weak! You are not like these puny weaklings. You are above these Rats, these filth!!" He shouted, thudding his fist into the bed with emphasis. Matthaias nodded, all this being so much to take in and yet, he felt an understanding in his estranged grandfather's words; some intense feeling of unity that resonated within his small body. </p><p>"Good... good boy..." He rasped, contorting his face in pain and clutching at his thin chest, the heart monitor beeping quickly as his heart seized then slowing. Fresh blood flooded through the tubes, brightly washing away the dark sludge that clogged it. It was a flood of relief, the easement of his long suffering. Harold reclined back on the bed, his large, withered hand reaching to squeeze the tiny child's, turning his head with difficulty to smile warmly down at his own flesh and blood. His precious seed. His faded hazel eyes met Matthaias's brilliant umber green irises, which flickered with life. Harold gazed, languishing, as if trying to see deep within him, trying to tell him the clandestine words he had left unspoken.</p><p>Then, his eyes stared even past him; past this mortal existence to the far reaches of a vast, bottomless pit where he resigned, a tear rolling down and dying. His body sank, slowly as he let out a loud exhale of air that smelled putrid as the boy stared back, but he didn't falter. Matthaias clutched his grandfather's hand with both of his and leaned closer, watching the contours of his face smooth, the slow rise of his chest sinking in with widened eyes. A guttural, rattling expulsion of breath escaped from Harold's emptied lungs that shook Matthaias to his core with fear.</p><p><em>"Grandpa? Grandpa!!"</em> He cried, feeling panicked, shaking as his hands were trapped within the gnarled hand growing cold, and rested his head on the hollow chest and sobbed, <em>"I'll remember, I promise I'll remember! Please wake up!!"</em></p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>Chapter 1: Hasslich </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>10 years later - 1995</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>I hold their fragile lives in my hands. Taking them from their warmth, from their mother. One by one I rob the nests, the Hens sitting unaware as I fill my basket. Patting one on the feathered rump, I leave, swinging the wicker basket. Out of habit, I take one; kissing my fist and wing it to the barn wall, just to hear that satisfying splat! As it shatters and spreads down the wall, a once fragile zygote now just a mess of scrambled eggs. I control the lives of these feeble livestock, each chick, every walking rotisserie dinner, and every glazed ham that lives happily unsuspecting until it's inevitable slaughter is brought down by my bludgeoning hand. I feel absolutely <em>exhilarated</em> by the <strong>control.</strong> A controlled environment where all is well; stable, until I disrupt its peace. Once again, God's creation is undone. Although, these beings are so pathetically weak. So helpless, and yet; are we not all helpless creatures when crushed beneath a tyrannical foot? </p><p>I deposit the eggs in the storage shed to be further processed, washed and then packaged. At this moment, I think a break is well deserved. The sun is sinking down into the horizon, which stretches out vastly before me as I sigh and wipe my brow with my forearm. It's been a long day, shoveling shit, kicking shit, practically eating shit, it makes for a splendidly shitty-shitty bang-bang kinda day. Translation, for those who do not speak Shitanese, I'm fucking filthy from head to toe, I'm hungry and I myself have to take a goddamn dump. I whistled as I strolled up to the house, feeling at that moment almost blissful.</p><p><em>"Matthaias!</em> I need your hand over here, boy!" My father, Joseph bellows across the field, sending a spike of dread down my spine. Mood utterly crushed, I walked down the long trek to the wheat field where I can see him sitting against the wheat thresher, taking a swig from his flask. I sighed, knowing what this is going to entail. Sure enough, it's gonna be 'Hand me that tool, No not that one, dumbass! Run back to the shed and grab this for me' <em>Blah, blah, blah!</em></p><p>I parted the black-eyed susans that grew annoyingly on the edge of the lawn and stood there awaiting his majesty's command with a frown. Joseph stood upright, wiping his face with a filthy hand and looking at me with that contemptuous glare he always gave in regard to me. </p><p>"Well, what can I do?" I asked, bullshitting my best earnest tone. He chuckled and patted me on the shoulder, I cringed with each slow pat and looked at his dirty mitt as if it were contagious.</p><p>"Oh well I figure, you're old enough now to drive the wheat thresher, if you can drive a truck you can drive one of these babies. It's just a mite different, I'll show ya." So, he goes on a long winded drawl about the controls and how to maneuver the great green behemoth, and supervises as I give it a few practice passes. Once he thinks I've got it, he's off running back to the house to go eat what should have been my share of dinner and take a seat on MY porcelain throne.</p><p>I scoff, I know that my father is less that satisfied with me as I've grown, no matter how hard I break my back on the farm, or how well I do in school he always gives me this look like I disgust him. Maybe it's the eerie resemblance to my grandfather, or the fact that I've grown to surpass him in everything I do. I seem to catch on so quickly to the things he struggles to even teach me. Perhaps a lifetime of roasting in the sun has shriveled his skin, and also his inept brain like a puny raisin. I cut the wheat as I think all this; pausing to unload and wrap the bales as I have always been a bale boy and never driver. I completed the other half of the field as he asked and drove it back into the barn, locking everything up for the night.</p><p>Sweating, filthy and dying for a drink I trudged inside, my heavy work boots caked with shit, my feet inside ache so badly it feels as if they are pooling with blood. I practically fell inside the door, kicking off my boots and dragging my feet to the bathroom adjacent to the mud-room porch that has been converted into a storage area. Feeling a small amount relieved, I splashed my face with cold water, taking a drought of it as I leaned on the sink, and looked into the mirror and my water beaded face. Sweat drips from the center parting of my hair, black as India ink, with just the faintest hue of red in the sun, the tips of my bangs falling like curtains into my eyes.</p><p>Blinking at my reflection, with vast pools of dark umber with smatterings of brilliant green, I dry off my face with the soothingly rough towel, setting it down and sighing as I prepare myself for what I don't know, I live in a state of irritated anxiety that claws at the back of my neck with every turn. The one thing I really hate is my nose, with its insistence on appearing aristocratic on my dull, acne scarred face undeserving of such a title. I furrowed my dense eyebrows, tossing the towel on the floor, hating every small feature that insists on glaring mockingly back.</p><p>Scoffing, I turn away and walk to the kitchen where I can hear my mother and father laughing idiotically, no doubt with his drunken lechery, or fully recanting in all the amusing ways he passed off his duties on to me while he stood gnawing on his tobacco, bitching behind my back, and scratching his ass as if he actually had some superiority over me. That's where he is wrong, but I can't allow him to see just yet, not until the moment strikes me.</p><p>I walked into the kitchen, feeling hunger gnawing at my insides when I smell the remaining aroma of my mother's satisfactory cooking. I sat at the table to tear into the tempting steak and potatoes, not caring that it had grown cold. Joseph still sits at the table, leaning back in his chair with his ankles crossed over the crumpled tablecloth, King of all Shit, his white socks sporting holes for air circulation around one shiny pink big toe. My mother is humming away ignorantly washing dishes in a frilly apron with her full botton swaying to Joseph's piss-drunk concrete grey eyes's pleasure. </p><p>"Did ya do what I asked, boy?" He slurred, clumsily slamming his whiskey glass onto the table, the amber liquid sloshing around.</p><p>"Yes. I did <em>exactly</em> what you asked me to do." I resisted my urge to snarl back, as I gulped down my food as a dog would do thinking its next meal isn't coming.</p><p>"Ya did, didya. Hmm." He grumbles, popping a wad of tobacco back in its nestled crook where it can eat away at the flesh of his thin, hollow cheek. It's revolting to me how he can simply sit and suck on that rotten tobacco, and at the same time drink that bitter, cheap whiskey he always drinks, with tiny flecks of tobacco floating in it.</p><p>"Well, ya know, those eggs are out there pilin' up, and Pickett's Corners had been callin' askin' when yer bringin' the next load in. We can't be sellun' rotted eggs now can we?" He said, thoughtfully through his stupor.</p><p>"I'll take care of it tomorrow. After school." I responded, feeling a queasiness in my stomach beginning to roll.</p><p>"Naw, that won't do. It would have to be in the mornin! Ol' Dan needs our bidness, you could lose your job, make our family look bad! Think our farm ain't haulin like it use ta." He said with exaggeration, wagging his head in abhorrence. My mother paused, the water shut off its rushing as she clutched a plate to her bosom and pleaded with her soft jade green eyes at him. </p><p>"Joseph... don't you think Matty could just do it after school when he goes to work? He would have enough--" she was cut off mid sentence, left flinching. "Oh <em>SURE!!"</em> He snapped, reeling about in his chair to lunge over the table.</p><p>"So that YOU can forget, AGAIN, for I don't know how many times to bring the GOD-DAMNED, STUPID. FUCKING. EGGS !! How hard is it to remember to pick them up BEFORE you go to work, where all you fucking do is <strong>STOCK</strong> the friggin' eggs! You can't do a single thing right, shit so simple an idiot could do it!" Joseph was now shouting on his drunken rage, spitting tobacco on me as he did. I flinched from the brown spittle on my face and now on my food, wiping my face, I pushed away my plate in disgust.</p><p>"May I be excused?" I said, voice trembling with trepidation. Joseph snapped up from his brief slumber, tired out from his screaming fit. He chuckled, amused.</p><p>"No, you may NOT be excused. Finish the dinner that your mother enslaved in the kitchen to make. Whimpering pussies like you don't grow into men without eating their steak!" This made him chuckle even more uproariously, now just swigging directly from the bottle. </p><p>"J-Joseph...um.. '' Mary started, her voice so thin and frail as it always was, had absolutely no effect on him. He pounded his fist on the table, spitting a dark, slimy wad of tobacco directly on my steak.</p><p>"Eat your goddamned food, NOW, before I have to cram it down yer gullet!" He bellowed, my entire body stiffening until my back was ramrod straight and shaking. I looked down at my food and grimaced. I took the fork in my quivering hand and cut a piece of steak, and held it before my mouth with the abhorrent tar dripping from it.</p><p>"Do it. Do it now boy, or you're gonna see the pearly gates when I'm whippin' your ass." He said lowly, licking his lips. His eyes gleamed with the possibility. No, it wasn't a possibility. It was an inevitability. Knowing this, I felt my resolve broken, and reluctantly opened my mouth and placed the piece on my tongue, eyes squeezed shut.</p><p>"Chew it." He encouraged, grinning with his yellowed, gapped teeth. I ground my teeth into the sinew of the meat, felt the tobacco touch my tongue. Bitter, revolting, it slid around in my mouth. My father's spit, the thought alone made me gag. I somehow managed to get it down.</p><p>"That's right. Tastes good, don't it?" He chuckled again low in his throat, his red rimmed watery eyes blinking disjointedly.</p><p>"Yes. It does." I said, soullessly. I took another bite, and another, with each bite feeling my mind separate from my sensation of taste.</p><p>"Better clean that plate, boy." He said, peering from one eye as his head bobbed and he started with a sharp inhale, tipping his dirt creased neck back to drain the bottle. I grimaced, staring at the gritty brown liquid on the plate that was a mixture of meat, fat and a thick clump of tobacco. My stomach knotted, objected to the foreign substance I was ingesting. I shut my eyes and licked the plate, my abdomen quaking up and down as I felt the grittiness slide down my throat.</p><p>"May I be excused now, please?" I gulped, feeling my bile rising. Joseph shook his head, waking himself up again as he glanced at me and snorted.</p><p>"Yeah. Get out of my sight. Idjiot. An' don't forget those eggs tomorrow, else'n we'll have another lesson like this." He slurred, and I nodded obediently, glaring at my mother with disgust as she set down a slice of apple pie in front of him with shaking hands, and he barely registered her presence, only watching me as I retreated to the bathroom. I ran immediately to the toilet and vomited with such velocity that my stomach felt sucked back to my spine, and it did not stop until I was gasping for breath and had tears streaming down my face. I flushed the toilet and attempted to wipe my face before I heard the bathroom door creak open. I froze, as I heard each slow, dragging step. I turned my face just barely, and saw him leering there, red faced, the whiskey bottle dangling from his hand. I crawled back, attempting to hide behind the toilet and cradled my head.</p><p>"Come out and fight, pansy!" Joseph pulled me out by the arm and smashed the bottle on my head, the heavy thud sending waves of sharp pain throughout my skull. I cried out, too stunned to react as he dropped it and began pummeling me. I fell over on my side and he kicked me so hard in the ribs with his steel toe boot, the wind was knocked out of me, the sharp stabbing pain threatening to puncture my lungs as he deftly kicked me, I could only wheeze raggedy and attempt to shield myself.</p><p>"Look at ya, curled up on the floor like a goddamned dog turd, GET UP!!" He roared, I could only lift my head weakly, still trying to fill my raw, aching lungs. He fell on me, wrapping his arms hard as steel around my throat and crushing my windpipe. I made a hoarse gurgling sound, feeling the blood filling my face hotly and my teeth gritting together like porcelain cracking as he squeezed relentlessly, panting with the exertion with his sweet, fermented breath in my face. His slate grey eyes stared into mine, that felt the capillaries threatening to burst, and spat hateful words into my ear.</p><p>"You don't deserve to be alive. Why do you have to look so much like HIM!!" He growled, the end curling up in a pained cry. Black dots danced across my blurring vision, my mind at the very verge of deathly silence. I could only plead with my tear-filled eyes.</p><p>"Harold was a monster. What he did to m-my mother.... I should have never been born!!" He screamed now, and I could hear the deep pain in his cry, and wished that I could somehow alleviate it. Perhaps only my death would heal his pain. I choked now, my tongue thick in my throat, blood seeping into my eyes from the laceration on my temple, the edges of my vision growing black as a midnight tunnel.</p><p>"Please stop! Joseph you're <strong>KILLING</strong> HIM!!" Mary screeched, slapping his back desperately. He did stop, by passing out suddenly, his weight crushing me as his arms grew slack around my throat, I inhaled a gust of air that burned, my lungs exploding with air. My vision flickered, becoming brighter as I gasped.</p><p>"Joseph. Come to bed sweetie. It's alright Matthaias. You know it's not your fault your father is hurting. It's not any of our faults. '' She said apologetically. I loathed her as I seethed with pain, getting up on my clenched fists I forced his limp body off me, regaining my footing as I held onto the sink, panting.</p><p>"Matty, can you help me with your father, dear?" I glared at her from my bloody reflection in the mirror, baring my teeth as I prepared to tell her to go fuck herself with a scalding-hot railroad spike. He stirred with a helpless whimper, which earned her undeserved attention, attention which should have been on her precious son's bleeding head. He stumbled into her arms and she pulled his limp arm over her back and walked him carefully out of the room, neither even glancing back at me or acknowledging the terrible thing that had just occurred.</p><p>I had to look away, feeling utterly defeated and failed by these so-called "parents'' of mine. After all, it wasn't the first time. No, I was quite familiar with the feeling of a bullwhip cracking against my skin, peeling it back in bloody welts, splitting the skin; cleaved it in two until the skin of my back scabbed over and was as lined as a roadmap. It would be the last time, if I had any say. One word resounded heavy in my mind as I clenched the corner of the sink tightly, feeling enraged. </p><p>
  <em> Hasslich. Hasslich. Hasslich.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>Upstairs in my room, I paced back and forth thinking all too much all at once. The house was silent, my parents slept soundly in their bed after loudly love making against my wall. How my mother loved that bastard, I'll never know. The warped mind that would choose an abusive, alcoholic father over her own son. All I truly know for sure is that I cannot stay in this hellhole one more second. I cringed, curling my hand to the side of my head and wincing in pain. I had to pull each shard of glass from my temple with tweezers, after which I poured peroxide over it and covered it with a large bandage. Again, not the first time I had to treat my wounds myself.</p><p>I started packing my backpack with multiple sets of clothes and some things I can't bear to part with, not knowing if I will ever return. I feel no attachment to this house or the people in it. I've had enough. Enough of the mental torture, the beatings, the ignorance of my pitiful mother and her denial of my enduring pain. </p><p>I looked around my small room for one last time, the size of a jail cell with only a twin size cot and walls plastered with heavy metal band posters and a shelf full of fantasy and horror books that allowed me to escape from reality. I took a few of my favorite books off the shelf and stuffed them into my bag. I'm not sure why, maybe I'll need some entertainment for my trip. That was it, and I headed down the stairs quietly, stepping softly to keep the steps from creaking. I crept into the kitchen and packed my bag the rest of the way full with some snacks that wouldn't perish immediately for where I was going. </p><p>I now know where I plan to go: to the beginning. I take a flashlight, some matches and my father's 12 gage shotgun with me, not knowing what I'll encounter there. Where I'm going is long overdue. I grab the keys to the truck as well and pull on my leather patch jacket with hate in every stitch, my favorite bands are sewn on every inch; from classic rock, to heavy, to progressive, thrash and doom metal. I pull on my scuffed red Chuck Taylor's and I'm ready to go. <em>Armoured.</em> I left the house, the turquoise blue Ford truck an unearthly violet under the night sky. I tossed my bag onto the passenger's seat and sat down, my body quivering with excited anxiety. I cringed at the loud roar of the engine, and turned the truck around to point back to the far woods and drove down onto the dirt road winding back from the barn, further into the arch of trees and deep into the woods I went. </p><p>About this place, where I was born, or rather: where the seed of my existence was born; is an ancient, untamed wilderness in which my grandfather's long seclusion from the outside world took place. The path becomes more narrow now, the branches of low hanging trees scrape against the roof as the house comes dimly into view. </p><p>I pull into the grassy overgrowth, and step out, swinging my bag over my shoulder as I flick on the flashlight to shine on the outside of the house, the white clapboard now withered, boards sagging with rot. Windows are busted out, surely vandals have already found the place. I continued on through the door that was permanently open, wedged into the threadbare rug as the wood had warped irreparably. Cobwebs tickled my arm that held the shotgun at the ready. I walked carefully, floorboards creaked out shrilly in the oppressive quiet. A rodent scurried away as I entered the main living area, where in the middle sat a squat cooking kettle, over a brick fire pit.</p><p>There was little furniture, but for a wooden rocking chair and a dusty table, where when I dared to touch the dust stirred and I found an assortment of tools there, perhaps for the skinning and gutting of small mammals. I moved onto the next room, where I found a claw foot tub filled with empty beer cans, sink and toilet included all in an odd, flaking seafoam green. The bathroom reeked of human refuse, most likely left behind by the drunk partiers. This house had been empty for over 20 years, during which Harold had been institutionalized, then later hospitalized when his health declined rapidly; due to terminal lung cancer up until his death. </p><p>Moving on, wishing to be away from the stench and unpleasant memories, I peered up the disintegrating staircase. Faintly pink carpeting turned grimy and bare hung from the steps. In some areas the wood was rotted through completely.</p><p>Deciding against my own desire for self-preservation, I went gingerly up the creaking stairs, one falling through completely as I stepped off of it. I gripped to the banister more tightly, slinging the gun over my shoulder. Moonlight crept in from the openings in the ceiling above, which wallpaper and insulation hung from in ragged strips. The ancient floor tiles creaked under my feet as I approached the first bedroom, peering through a cracked doorway, I saw a girl's bedroom with a tattered lace bedspread, with her dolls still lined up neatly on the bed. There was nothing much else of interest in the room, so I moved onto the next bedroom, which was small and barely moveable with dusty aluminum toys and clothing strewn on the floor.</p><p>There was little more than a twin size cot, dresser and a broken window with jagged, brown streaked spikes like teeth. The bed sunk in where the unfortunate animal that most likely crawled through the window had torn open its abdomen and curled up and died, now dessicated and little more than a pile of fur. This had to have been Joseph's childhood room, he lived here up until his early twenties, in which he married Mary. By the time I was born, they had built the new house up front, far away from the dark woods possessed by haunting memories. </p><p>I turned away from the sad little room, my attention drawn to the moonlight shining down the floorboards from the master bedroom. I approached it, seeing first another rocking chair, sat comfortably by the tall window overlooking what would have been a picturesque sight once upon a time. A ball of yarn and unfinished blanket sat besides a worn teddy bear covered in mildew. I came farther into the room, shining the light on the wall where I was startled to see faces staring back at me.</p><p>The large black and white photos were almost pristine beneath dusty glass, I walked over carefully and wiped the dust from the face of a woman, with sparkling dark eyes and full lips, although older she had aged gracefully, with a long strand of pearls strung multiple times around her neck. I mused, perhaps my great-grandmother. The next photo when revealed was clearly of my great-grandfather, the uncanny resemblance to Joseph was there and yet he appeared more dignified, with rounded spectacles beneath a furrowed brow, hard eyes cut from wrought iron, and a bearded grimace.</p><p>I dismissed it quickly, not wishing to know the man that bore such an uncanny resemblance. Then, there was a small, unframed photo simply nailed to the wall. It had to be Harold. His black hair slicked and combed to the side, pale face contrasting with thick brows much like my own. What I noticed with slight unease were his eyes, wide and startled as if he were surprised by the flash. With his lips pulled in an uncomfortable smile, throat tightly squeezed by a bowtie where a raised vein bulged from his jugular, he looked as a wild animal trapped in human skin. I trailed my finger down the wrinkled photo, down his cheek in lingering affection for what was long lost. </p><p>My gaze wanders and falls on the largest photo of all, in a decorative oval frame stares out a frail female creature; angelic in her halo of curling golden blonde hair, her youthful complexion glowing. Clear eyes peeked from behind their curtains of lashes, coyly, her small bow-shaped lips glossy and kissable sweet. This girl was the intangible object of Harold's unwarranted affections; Emily. I knew that this must be her because her loveliness made even me swallow at the sight, pulse quickening at the idea of how Harold must have pursued her, she was the perfect prey, young, sweet; desirable. And yet, a dark line dripped from her lips and down to her white throat, turning into clearly visible fingerprints. I trailed my finger down the dried liquid, and onto the fingerprints where mine fit perfectly.</p><p>I flinched away, seeing more black flakey substance that dripped down to the dresser, sitting in a long dried puddle that was dusted over sat something that was clearly a knife, even with cobwebs stringing it to the substance. I reached with quivering fingers and pulled it from the dresser with a crack of wood, feeling a prick like a jolt of lightning shoot through my arm.</p><p>The blade reflected dimly in the darkness, revealing brown dried blood at the tip. I dropped it to the floor, shivering, wondering from who, or what. I started backing away from the room, away from the captured visages that seemed to stare accusingly, from Harold's wide; frantic eyes staring as if to say I didn't belong here, I didn't deserve to look upon Emily's beauty. My shoulders hit the wall, where there was a faded painting of our farm, showing it in its prime with a red barn and white silo gleaming in the sun, golden fields that stretched onto the horizon.</p><p> </p><p>When I fell into the painting, something clattered to the floor in a puff of dust. I bent down with the flashlight to see faded, long cursive writing on the inside of crumbling, yellowed pages. I picked it up and read what I could discern from the faded penmanship. </p><p>5.14.48</p><p>
  <em> We have only a day or so now until we reach the shores of America. I'm excited to go, but also I worry that once we arrive I will be separated from her. Emily. Her mother's health continues to decline, and her only respite is the friendship formed with my own mother. I find Emily placated by the distraction my clever pranks provide. Just yesterday I mopped the deck with oil and sent everyone sliding and one poor sap almost off the edge which would have been even more entertaining if he had actually fallen into the water. I have to provide some sort of amusement for myself and if at the expense of others I have no qualms. Emily attempts to convince me to find less destructive activity such as doing her cross stitching but I would never lower myself to such an effenamite activity... </em>
</p><p>I turned the page carefully, curiosity overtaking my fear and comforting me with the words of the past. </p>
<ol>
<li>15. </li>
</ol><p>
  <em> I have decided to take things into my own hands. The promise of American medicine proves to be too hopeful for Emily's mother. After hearing my mother discuss terms with hers if upon her death our family will take in Emily. I am ecstatic. It is late in the evening and my anticipation leaves me restless. I have found a solution to my dilemma.  </em>
</p>
<ol>
<li>16. </li>
</ol><p>
  <em> Soon we will be at the port of Ellis Island. I can see the shore of America in the distance, and the promise of a new life for our family. Last night I was able to find Emily's mother lying in a sick bay and after providing a distraction outside for the nurse I suffocated her easily with a pillow. At her pitiful state, it was assumed the consumption took her. I have played the comforting "brother" role well, Emily is so distraught she will not speak. But I am assured soon she will come to me.  </em>
</p><p>I held the journal in my quivering hands, my eyes widened with the new knowledge. I gazed back up at the photo of Harold, trying to understand why he did what he did. It was diabolical, sick... yet, I almost... applauded his cunning. I thought, with surprise at my own revelation. My eyes travelled back to Emily and I twisted my brows, at the image of my grandmother, attempting to see her through his eyes. Yes, I surmised. I could understand why he did it. For her, to keep her, I couldn't honestly dispute that if in his position I wouldn't have thought of the same thing. It was cruel, but her death would have been inevitable. "Old devil." I chuckled, shaking my head in both amusement and disbelief. I put the journal in my pocket and headed back down the stairs carefully, eager to read more of my grandfather's entries. </p>
<hr/><p>I made a fire downstairs with discarded wood and scraps of the falling house. I was able to keep warm by the fire while I continued to read with my flashlight shining on the entries. I read for a while, about how he spent the next few months as they built the new house and got settled in our property. Harold seemed relatively stable, if not impatient in the beginning but his entries slowly became more dark, perverse in his intense observation of Emily's activity and demented as he recorded his torture of small animals and how the animals perished. It was a much too familiar mindset, which comforted me. Made me ravenous. I ate a twinkie loudly from its plastic wrapper as I continued to the next entry. </p>
<ol>
<li>17. </li>
</ol><p>
  <em> My plan has gone superbly well to get rid of my parents. Now I can be here alone with Emily. I found the perfect couple to play my parents. I hid in the back of their car and jumped out during their fear after I threatened them with a gun. They collided with the vehicle before them and I snuck off quickly as I could before the vehicles erupted into flames, and my darling Emily was none the wiser. I took her to the scene of the crime so that she could understand that it was the fault of this modern technology that was to be their downfall, and she clung to me in her fear, sobbing at the scene which was so blackened by fire it was barely recognizable. I convinced her it was best to leave the scene for the authorities to find, and come back home with me where it was safe. She will never know how I took her precious foster parents out deep into the woods, gagged and bound and slowly cut their bodies until they were drained of blood. How pleasurable it was to be witness to their suffering, their silenced cries unheard. She will never know this, though. Her memories of this day should be somewhat fuzzy. With some careful prodding I was able to share the American moonshine I learned to make from a friendly farmer down the way with her, although I drank far less of mine being mixed with water. It only took her a few cups to become inebriated, to my enjoyment she became much more receptive, In fact totally helpless to my advances.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> I thoroughly enjoyed my reward. It is with the thoughts of my forebears dying I took her body, made her mine, even with a good amount of resistance I was able to easily stop her struggling. The writhing, helpless way she moves only serves to please me more. She will become receptive to my advances, with time I'm sure she will take comfort in my embrace. She will stop her foolish tears, and give into the pleasure her delightful body is aching for. The feeling she gives me is unlike anything I have ever felt before, it comes close to the exhilaration I felt in murder. I love her. She makes my heart ache deep in my chest and swell with love, this thing I have never known myself to feel until now...  </em>
</p><p>I paused, swallowed the saliva filling my mouth and re-read the passage, how many times I couldn't say. It was as if my mind were trying to process this was actually real, that Harold actually killed his own parents and was responsible for the deaths of the crash victims as well. I understood. Not only that, but the last passage made me flare my nostrils with the words rolling around in my head, attempting to comprehend the fact that my father was right, he was a child of rape. He should have never been born, he was actually right.</p><p>The one thing that puzzled me though, was how he so easily succumbed to falling in 'love' like a fool. He told me that Hatred was the way I would survive. I would never fall victim to that weak man's folly, that is one thing you will not see me do is fall in love. That's where he made his mistake. I scoffed, making a disgusted sound and shaking my head. I chuckled, popping another twinkie in my mouth, entertained. </p><p>I read entry after entry, surrounded by nothing but the wind whistling through the trees, my eyes glued to the words on the fragile pages that crumbled under my sweaty grip for hours. Until my eyes fell on one particularly interesting entry. </p>
<ol>
<li>9. 51</li>
</ol><p>...<em>Emily has reverted back into an invalid child. She enrages me with the way she rocks in her chair, knitting away at useless things while our petulant child screams at her feet, she only knits faster, rocks faster as his cries grow louder. I have ordered her to care for the brat, and snatched the knitting from her hands, but she still moves them as if it is still there, unbelievable! It has brought me down to the level of a scullery maid to my shame. I have had to feed the brat, change his soiled cloth as she becomes less and less capable...No longer does she thrash beneath me at night and excite me with her failed escape, she lies stiff and unblinking as a board, and it has made me bored, along with her no longer limber body, it has become rounded and lumpy to my disgust. I've considered torture, or starvation, but here I find myself putting the damned spoon to her mouth as I do Joseph's, and be gods be damned it dribbles just as his...</em></p><p><em>...Her once lively eyes only stare blankly, out the bedroom window as she clutches a stuffed bear. I have thought to push her, and simply end her suffering, but it's harder to do than I imagined. How I wish she was the way she was before; alive, and kicking. It is with despair that I pray to all the gods, her mind will return to her.... Joseph does nothing but cry for her, she is catatonic now. Her limbs are stiff as gnarled branches. I am at my wit's end at what to do with this shell of a woman my love has become.</em>.. I turned the page to the next entry, which was so spotted with blood and the writing so erratic I could barely read it. I held the flashlight closer, and discerned the words as best I could. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>She has left her chair. The first time in a year since I started caring for her, I was no longer convinced she could even walk on her own. I hadn't expected it when I went into town to buy groceries. Emily had totally disappeared. I took off into the woods to find her, using the scent of her slippers to bait the hounds...I found her. There, above the long decayed corpses of my parents that were now skeletal, but for mother's pearl necklace and father's spectacles. Emily must have found them in her madness, she used the rope I used to bind them to the tree to hang herself...I am at this moment in such shock my sole comfort is writing this, as I can barely begin to understand why rivers of tears ran down my face, and how I howled on the ground like a pathetic animal. I lied out there for an insurmountable time until I could utter the strength to stand and head back to the house to retrieve Joseph and a shovel to bury her with. </em>
</p><p><em>The child wouldn't stop his damned crying, so I backhanded him into the ground and was left to do the deed of cutting her down. When I took her down, I felt something hard in her belly, it was the same knife I had used to kill my parents. She had repeatedly shoved it into her stomach. It was my fear to discover when I pushed aside her flesh, I could see just barely-- the pale hand of a child. I was devastated. I cut through her abdomen and pulled out the unborn child. He was small, so small. The killing blow pierced his tiny chest. I could see the delicate features of his face, feel the hair on his head soft as silk. I named him, and buried him alongside her to give myself some comfort. It hurts me so to know that she would kill Our child, it's a pity I will never meet my son, if I were a kinder man perhaps we could have cared for him Together..</em>.</p><p>I dropped the flashlight to the floor and held my head in my hands with the revelation. The knife, the blood upstairs... it made sense. The irony that with the same knife he murdered his own parents, she murdered their unborn child. I closed the book on my lap and shuddered. I had read enough for now. I laid back in the chair and covered myself with the thick quilt that had been lying there, and slept as much as I could, haunted by the scenes that played out in my nightmares. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Retaliation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>I awoke, not to the sound of birds chirping, or the feel of the sun's warmth on my face but to my name being screamed in an angry bellow. Great. I've been found. </p><p> </p><p>"What in the hell are you doing back here, with my goddamned truck, and my shotgun? You've got some explaining' to do, boy! You better wake up NOW before I blast your head clean off!" </p><p>I groaned and tilted my head back, to see the barrel of a shotgun tilted down between my eyes. I jumped nearly out of my skin, I was definitely awake now.</p><p> "Didja think ya were smart, hiding back here? Gotta be the dumbest thing ya ever did do, boy. Now get up and do your job, you promised to get those eggs shipped off, TODAY." He lowered the gun, still with his finger on the trigger and grimaced at his surroundings. </p><p>"Don't know why I didn't burn this hovel down a long time ago, after they shipped your grand-daddy offn' to the loony bin..." he said, spitting. </p><p>"Heh. You think I beat you something fierce, boy, you should have seen the things he did to me...What happened to my mother...you gotta understand that was his doing, his fault and nothing but. He was a bastard, a spawn of Satan!" Joseph moved the gun to me again, his thoughtful expression lost. </p><p>"Get up." I moved the blanket off of me, picking up my bag and stuffing the journal inside. </p><p>"How do you know anything? You weren't even old enough to understand! He didn't put the rope around her neck, she did!" I emphasized, feeling exasperated. This only made him madder, he pulled me forward by my arm and shoved the barrel in my back. </p><p> </p><p>"SHUT UP! Now move!" I decided it was against my best judgment to argue, and shuffled to the truck. Defeated.</p><p>It was still dark, the sun hadn't even made its ascent over the trees yet, as we rode up the dirt road in silence, the house fading away in the side view mirror. I felt more anger than before, I was humiliated by his intrusion and enraged by the lies he spewed about his father. I had never known the full story, only bits and pieces; but now I understood. I respected him. Even though he was not of a totally sound mind, I could sense in his words that he did care in his own way for Emily, but something in him didn't have the capacity for affection, and didn't comprehend how to show it. In result, I feel akin to him more than ever. My father on the other hand, I had not even the slightest inkling of respect for. Not the tiniest speck of affection. I was forced to bend to his will, to answer in the way that he wanted. It was the only thing that kept him from putting me down like he truly wished to.</p><p> </p><p>We came back to our yard, and I got out of the truck, leaving my bag inside with a knowing glance. I set out to get on with packing and cleaning the eggs that had started this whole problem. I washed them in a large basin of lukewarm water, feeling disgusted with the amount of chicken shit my arms waded in. I set them aside to dry and washed my arms well with soap. It was a simpleton's work I was forced to do, so simple my ditzy mother could have done it; in fact she <em> should </em> have done it, but Joseph is infatuated with the image of a perfect housewife that never soils her pretty nails. I packed them in cartons, and my father stood observing for a few moments as If I couldn't be trusted to perform this extremely simple task. Then, he paced around the property looking for any inconsistencies he could blame on me. Before long I was done, and placed them in the crates that read Kenney's Best to be ready for loading. I went into the house and shedded my clothes that smelled a bit musty and changed for school. I came downstairs and made my coffee, adding copious amounts of sugar to the strong, black swill. I gulped it down as my mother whined about how worried sick she was when Joseph woke up and found that I was gone. I nodded, not caring how she felt for that matter or believing it for one second. </p><p> </p><p>"...It's dangerous for you to be up in that old house, you could get hurt, Matthaias! And we wouldn't even know where you were, do you realize how..." <em> Ramble, ramble, ramble. </em> </p><p> </p><p>"Alright, mom. I understand" I answered, knowing that would appease her for the time being. I poured her coffee, adding cream and sugar and handed it to her, to her surprise, ushering her to sit down in the reclining chair while I switched on the TV to her favorite Soap Opera, turning up to a deafening volume as she liked it.</p><p> "Oh Matty, T-thank you!" She said, completely flabbergasted. I smiled, feeling nauseated. I kissed her on the forehead. "Why don't you sit here and relax. I'll go help Dad outside." She nodded eagerly, completely dumbfounded by the actions very unusual for myself. It didn't last long though, before becoming distracted by her show that would suck her in until it was almost time for my father to have lunch, which is when she would go into a high-speed, caffeine-induced flurry to primp and beautify herself, clean the house, and make a hearty lunch to his liking. I returned to the kitchen, wiping my mouth and spitting before downing my second cup of the blackened swill, and stretched, cracking my neck, grinning. </p><p> </p><p>It was still early, about an hour before the bus would arrive. I pulled on my jacket and sneakers, and headed out the door, thrusting my hands in my pockets and whistling the tune <em> of "Do You Know The Muffin Man?" </em> I paused before the chicken coop, feeling at that moment practically diabolical with what I intended to do. I started walking again, until I was tripped up by one of the brainless birds. I bent down and grabbed it hard around its gulping throat, the bird flapping frantically, feathers flying as I walked into the dark building at the edge of the property. The slaughtering barn. The bird grew even more frantic, which only served to entice me even more. </p><p>I swung open the door to the darkened room with glinting hints of metal, black painted concrete floor with drains on the bottom. A large contraption for killing. I took the frightened bird and placed it into the funnel device, its beak pointed south and neck pulled taut, I slit its downy white throat, creating a red gash as it made garbled squawks. Blood flooded from the opening, drenching the knife as I fully decapitated it.</p><p> </p><p>"Dear Me, I'm afraid you've completely lost your head, Old Chap." With my smirk, its head dropped into the bucket below, its orange eye dilation as blood rained down on it from above, open and unblinking. I filled the large kettle we used to boil the birds feathers clean off, turning on the burner beneath to heat up the water. It was large and deep enough to fit in multiple birds, <em> or even boil an <strong>entire</strong> pig in</em>, I thought with sick humor, although such a thing had never been done.</p><p> </p><p> I gazed into the deep basin as the bubbles grew fiercer, watching with some amusement as the bubbles ate away at the blood, feathers loosened and fell away. Though, I didn't feel satisfaction as I usually did. I allowed it to continue to boil, as I calmly turned and perused the wall of weapons. Saws, knives, hatchets and axes of all makes. I grinned, taking the large, red wooden Fireman's Axe off the wall, feeling the pommel slide through my palms, tapping the blade on the ground to ensure it was tightly attached. I walked back outside; admiring the sunrise over the wheat field, the lofty red sun radiated gradual shades of scarlet, ocher orange, gilded golden yellow with white cornsilk clouds bathed in warm light. I breathed in the fresh morning dew, deeply, wanting to remember this moment in all its glory.</p><p> </p><p> "Matthaias, get your dumb pansy ass over here, I need your help." Joseph barked gruffly, one hand holding his flask, the other on the hood of the thresher with his broad back to me. </p><p>"I'm coming right away, Dad." I answered, smiling. My eyes must have been sparkling with a devilish hue, as I felt my smile straining at my cheeks, heart crashing in my chest like a caged wild dog. He laughed, simpering with the joke he was about to spew from his hateful lips. </p><p>"Well, it's the damnedest thing. I can't seem to get my fly undone, maybe you could pull it down with your teeth and suck my cock, ya fuckin' faggot!" He laughed heartily, slapping the hood of the thresher, thinking himself to be SO fucking hilarious. I snorted, unaffected, and strolled to his side, gripping his wrist and lifted the hood to slam it down on his fingers, locking it into place.</p><p> </p><p> <em> "FUCK!" </em> He cried, attempting to pull his hand free. "What the hell, it was a goddamn <em> joke! </em> Can't you take a friggin' joke! " He spat, struggling to pull it up as I held it down.</p><p> "It wasn't very funny." I responded, shrugging as he scrambled to get his hand free. I reached for the flask, as I leaned my body weight on the hood and downed it, leaving a mouthful in my cheek. </p><p>"Give that back you lil' shithead!" He screamed, face turning red and contorted in rage. I did, by spitting it in his face and laughing. "Fuck!-- Goddamn--" he sputtered, and it was my turn to have my laugh, stopping to grin at his dripping visage. </p><p>"Okay, okay! Ya got me back good now, Boy, now let go before I get real mad." He said, feigning a friendly grin and nodding his head. I let go, so that he could pull out his hand and wince at his swollen purple fingers with a hard line of white where the hood had pressed down to the bone.</p><p> "Fuck! That smarts! Now you're in trouble." He snarled, turning, but not before I lifted the flat side of the axe and swung it into his temple, knocking him down hard onto his back. "Yeah, and so does being hit with a whiskey bottle to the head, Dad." He groaned, clutching his head. He began rolling onto his side to get up, but not before I kicked him squarely in the ribs hard enough to crack them, with all the force I could muster. His body convulsed upward as he gasped again, and again like he had me. He let out a bellow of pain, clutching his side and wincing. </p><p> </p><p>I fell upon him, punching him in the gut with force, bringing my elbow down so hard on his despiteful face his teeth clicked, mouth hung open with blood pouring from a split lip. He turned, his face twisted in pain and stared up at me, shaking, with one hand protecting his jaw. "Matthaias! Please STOP! I didn't mean to do what I did the other day, I just do things the way my daddy did to me, but it was wrong! I see that now! I'm<em> sorry!!" </em> He cried, tears spilling down his cheeks, spit and blood bubbling down his bobbing chin.</p><p> </p><p> I stared down at him, blinking hard. It was too late for apologies. I reached down and unbuckled my belt, pulling it from the loops and cracking it between my hands, the studded spikes clapping against hard metal. He shuddered, backing away and shaking his head. I came forward, grabbing his shoulder roughly and shoved his face hard into the ground. I reared back, standing on the backs of his knees and whipped his back; hard, hearing the belt slice through the air and land with a crack on his back as he screamed, I whipped faster, feeling the anger exploding from within now unleashed, his back becoming bloody through slices in his shirt while he could only howl into the dirt. He turned his face and begged for mercy, whimpering and squirming for freedom but I didn't let him get away, No, he never gave <b>me</b> mercy. I stepped on his back, relinquishing the belt and panting hard, feeling sweat dripping down my face. I reached down for the axe and laid it across my shoulders.</p><p> </p><p> "Alright. On the count of zero, I will release you. Get up, and run as fast as you can." His head popped up wearily, arms bracing on the ground. He huffed and puffed, wheezed in pain.</p><p> "3..." He got one foot up under him. </p><p>"2..." He was now in position to sprint, one foot still planted in the center of his back. "1..." I let my foot off, and he stumbled to regain footing and began to run dazedly towards the house. Without even a second to spare, I approached on him quickly and raised the axe, my sublime shadow falling on his back with the soft orange cast of the sunrise, feeling the weight, the grip sliding through my hands, and then the bone shattering impact, loud crunch and resulting scream of agony that tore through him as it sunk firmly above his shoulder blade, just nearly scraping the bone. </p><p> </p><p>"Zero. Times up." I pulled it out with a wet sluice gaping there, he dropped to his knees with ragged breaths, reaching back with a quivering hand to feel the splayed open meat of his back. "Oh god.." he gasped, with a helpless cry, dropping his arm and turning his face up to the sky to beg God for his forgiveness. That was when I swung the axe, the sharp head of it slicing through the still air and meeting with his cheek, pulverizing his jaw bone, crashing through ungracefully shattering the bone and ripping through muscle, leaving shredded ligaments dangling as I lopped off his head at the jaw, with one fell swoop decapitating him. His head fell heavy to the ground with a wet thump, pink tongue lolled out of his mouth as blood gushed from the jagged edges, the corpse beginning to slowly sag to the ground.</p><p> </p><p> I hiked up the lifeless body by the straps of his overalls and dragged him back to the slaughtering barn, the head in the other hand held by the hair. I hauled up his body and laid it in the tub, gently setting his head atop the severed jaw and pushing him down into the roaring boil, blood escaping and turning the water red, the dangling veins dancing upwards and tickling his cheeks. The chicken head bobbed like a rubber ducky on the surface, the eyes now swollen, skin leathery and pink. I turned away and looked at myself in the dingy mirror, wiped specks of blood from my face and frowned. My work was not done. No, my day had only started. </p><hr/><p>I paced at the end of the driveway, snapping my fingers, whistling; anything to distract myself from the repetitive playthrough of Joseph's death; over and over I relived every second in full, mouth salivating, blood rushing from the adrenaline that still coursed through my tingling veins. I was absolutely besotted by the thrill it gave me; giddy. I almost broke into tears of laughter again, as I had not five minutes after everything clicked in my mind, the gravity of what I had actually done. When my mother questioned me about why I was laughing, I told her that my father and I had peacefully resolved all our differences, and I was simply so glad to have my father's forgiveness. She was overjoyed with this, and to my disgust she hugged me, a sensation that absolutely revolted me, but I held in my disgust and beared the human touch she gave me in approval, once she released me I turned away and shuddered and brushed myself off. I grimaced again and twitched just at the thought of it. I could perhaps bear the embrace of an attractive girl, but my mother pressing her sagging breasts against my chest was something I almost felt nauseated by. One thing I absolutely despise is being touched. If it's without my permission, or even in brief passing the mere act puts me in a state of agitated disgust. </p><p> </p><p>I was quickly brought out of my distracting thoughts as the yellow goliath of a school bus came to a squealing halt before me. I took a deep breath and stepped on, immediately seeing the center aisle becoming miraculously cleared. They likely knew that any errant foot would be disingenuously stomped as punishment. I smirked, knowing that nobody here would defy me. I walked to the back as the bus lurched forward, and took my seat in the very back, four seats that remained empty at all times knowing that I needed my personal space. Although, just because they all knew it was best to avoid me, that did not stop the jeering and mocking catcalls that followed my entrance. I was too joyous today to be irritated by their obnoxious chatter, instead I simply turned on my Walkman and blasted it all away with the growling; almost demonic thrash music that was a symphony of grinding guitars and slamming drums. It calmed me, down to my core, down to my very soul and I reclined my head on the seat, sliding down to prop my knees against the seat in front of me.</p><p> </p><p> Rivers of blood rushed through my mind, the soothing vermillion flood I would bathe in if only I could. I closed my eyes, relaxing my trembling limbs for a time, until I felt the bus stop and heard the squeal of the door folding open for us to all file out. I switched off my music player and tucked it in my pocket, walking off the bus and towards the tall red brick building that is Peasleeville High. It's my senior year, and I am excelling in all subjects. I walked upstairs to my dented green locker, turning the combination lock quickly, retrieving my pen, pencil and books for my 1st period class. I slammed the locker door, thoroughly shaking the student who had the misfortune of his name coming before mine. I laughed, feeling unusually lighthearted, and left for class. At least here, in the pulsating masses of rat-faced teenagers, I probably look quite handsome if I walk behind the truly genetically deficient inbreds that this school is overpopulated by. </p><p> </p><p>My first three classes go by smoothly, I gladly sit and listen to the droning lecture of the teachers who attempt to bore the information into our skulls, that is if anyone can keep their eyes open long enough. I write my notes quickly, in time with the lecture; my pen gliding across the paper as I write in slanted, narrow letters. I enjoy writing, I am calmed by the almost erotic sensation that sends tingles of serotonin into my brain, as I smooth my hand over the indented surfaces just slightly rough and ridged kisses my palm. I am at an uncharacteristically high level of serenity today. Normally I am always on edge, just on the cusp of boiling over so much that I quiver with pent-up aggravation. Nothing can break my state of post-murder tranquillity. I come back to calm attention as the bell rings, and then I remember with dread that I have physical education next. It's not that I don't enjoy exercise, I know that my body requires it to avoid the unappealing appearance of obesity; it isn't the idea of exercise that perturbs me, but the fact that I may be physically touched and in close range to the sweat drippings of other students.</p><p> </p><p> I cringed inwardly as I put my books back into my locker and made the long trek across the building and to the gymnasium. Once there I entered the locker room to get changed, also an activity I despise, being nearly naked and having the misfortune to briefly glance at any of the misshapen, scrawny bodies of other boys. I went to the back of the locker room, hanging my jacket in the locker and reached to pull off my black shirt that bore the label of the metal band, Death. There was an odd amount of resistance when I tugged at it. It came free with a velcro-like peel, and I realized with dawning dread that a dusky red substance remained, plastering my chest hairs flat where my front must have become drenched then dried with Joseph's blood. </p><p> </p><p>I lifted my head to see almost the entire class of boys turn and stare at me with widened eyes, before they could say anything I clutched my shirt to my chest, taking off into the showers, peeling off my clothes in a panic. I got in and turned on the water, pumping out a pile of soap in my hand and slapping it on my chest vigorously and lathering it, the blood dripping down into the drain and making pink suds. I scrubbed until I was satisfied there was no remainder of his foul blood on my body. I had done it once over at home, making sure my face and arms were clean, but the black of the shirt concealed the splash of blood that must have hit me when I killed Joseph. Once clean, I dried off and wrapped a towel around my waist, my pale skin now flushed red and splotchy from the scalding hot water. Not only from the fear of them discovering the dead I had done, but also because the very idea of wearing the blood of my despicable sperm-donor father on my own body completely nauseated me. </p><p> </p><p>When I came out the locker room was empty and I got dressed, feeling relieved. I went out to the gym, now wearing a plain black tank top and knee length denim shorts. I crept in without being noticed and joined the group of boys doing push-ups and crunches. We stretched and did laps around the gym. I breathed in relief, enjoying the feeling of gliding past all of them and chasing the tail end of those too weak and fat to keep up. We slowed to a halt when the teacher announced our activity for that day. </p><p> </p><p>"Today you'll be learning the art of Greco-Roman Wrestling, class. Now, watch as Frank and Jeff here from the wrestling team demonstrate how to begin and what not to do." I groaned audibly. <em> Touching </em> . My stomach was doing turns already as I watched the two Herculean boys who paced about like lions about to pounce, then gripped each other by the shoulders in some show of dominance. <em> At least</em>, I reflected <em> , I'm in better shape than most of the boys here</em>. A lifetime of working on the farm has made my body hard and wiry; my sensitivity to pain dulled by the routine beatings Joseph gave me. They struggled, then one forced the other to the ground and held him in a stranglehold. They demonstrated the varieties of Nelsons in all their quartered and chopped forms, and other types of holds and locks until I was over the anxiety and now just fully bored. </p><p> </p><p>"Alright.." the teacher scanned the room, appraising our size. "...Kenney. You pair up with Frankie. We want an even weight match." He snapped, motioning for me to get up. I squirmed inwardly at the thought, as Frankie glanced up at me, unfazed, already dripping with sweat and panting. I approached the mat. He reached out to shake my hand, which I quickly gripped then wiped on my shorts briskly. I swallowed as he got into form again, legs bent and arms out at the ready. I replicated the stance, glaring at the drop of sweat trickling from his face and down to his neck with disgust. He began to pace towards me, and I sidestepped to evade him a bit longer than necessary to avoid the touching that was about to ensue. </p><p> </p><p>"Get on with it, boys. No need to be nervous. I'll be right back. I want a clean fight." The teacher nodded, motioning to Jeff to keep an eye on things. He strolled over and crossed his arms smugly as the teacher walked out the back door for a smoke. Frankie smiled, his tanned and perfect complexion shining, pearly white teeth beaming at me. At least, I could see that this one was of pure blood. He spoke in a husky whisper and jerked his chin at me. </p><p> </p><p>"Come on, Freak boy, come at me!" </p><p>I bristled, and found myself eagerly rushing toward him, gripping his slick biceps in my hands. They slipped only a little as he moved to do the same. He shoved me backwards, my heels digging into the mat, and with a hard exhale I forced him back, until his heels hit the high gloss waxed floor. I glared at him, into his too-blue eyes and seethed with victory. </p><p> </p><p>"You're strong for a Nerd." He joked, brushing himself off and strolling back onto the soft green mat, his face only inches from mine. The other boys laughed, repeating the insult like mindless parrots. My eyes swept around angrily, feeling my hackles rising. I backed up a step, and he followed, until I lunged forward and shoved him onto his back. The class all gasped and jeered for more violence. He started to move to get up, but I grabbed his arm and wrenched it behind his back, kneeling onto him and forcing his face into the sweaty mat. I laughed, with a hot exhale, growing excited by the act of violence. My hands gripped him firmly, knee digging firmly in his back as he swore and struggled to escape.</p><p> </p><p> "That's right, you're under me now. Grovel." I growled, my vision growing tunneled with the intense focus on his struggling form. He cried out in pain as the joint of his shoulder ground bone against bone. </p><p><em> "I give, I give!" </em> He cried, and I heard it and released him, remembering that this was only a silly gym exercise. Then, I found myself plowed over without a second's warning, he had my throat under his elbow, forcing my face into his sweating armpit. I made a horrendous, pitiful sound of fear, screaming deep in my throat. I flailed my legs out and pushed my back up off the floor, digging my nails into his arms frantically as my heartbeat quickened into an uncomfortable rhythm, my breath hitching in my chest on the cusp of hyperventilating.</p><p> </p><p> "Tough guy Matthaias Kenney! Brought down by a sweaty little armpit!" He laughed, pressing closer to my face. Other boys grabbed my kicking ankles and held them down, chuckling and egging him on.</p><p> </p><p> <em> "Lick it, Lick it, Lick it!" </em> They chanted, a joyous yet malevolent tune, the sound faint in my ears beneath the thundering beat of my heart and the reedy gasps of breath that kept me nearly conscious. </p><p>"You heard them, they want you to lick it, Freak!" Frankie growled, clutching the back of my head and forcing my face into his armpit, burying it in the rancid moisture. I squeezed my eyes shut, brought back to the past, whenever Joseph would order me to do something distasteful. Over the years I had learned that it was easier to just do the disgusting thing than fight back, to avoid the inevitable lash on my back when I had the dignity to refuse. I had become accustomed to doing what any normal person would find abominable.</p><p> </p><p> I squeezed tears from my eyes, feeling them burn down my red, embarrassed cheeks as I fought back for my dignity, struggling to calm my breathing. Then, I remembered. Joseph was dead now. I killed him. I would never take another order from anyone <b>again</b>. I stilled my body, became unnaturally calm. I felt the hands release from my limbs thinking I had given up.</p><p> "Lick my sweat up, <em> bitch!" </em> Frankie said again, searching for comic relief in the uneasy tension that hung in the air. I blinked the tears from my eyes, hard, and gripped his forearm forcefully, easily pulling myself from his grip. I got myself back up on my feet and wiped my face with one hand, spitting on the floor before me. Frankie stood up, shakedly crossing his arms and looking around the room for support. There was nothing but silence as I spoke, my voice calm and measured. </p><p>"No. I longer have to do what I don't want to anymore. You aren't my father. My father is <b>dead</b>." Frankie looked surprised, so he laughed to cover his apprehension. </p><p>"Well of course I ain't your daddy, hick. You lick up his sweat too? I bet you licked his dirty old sack clean, like a <b>fucking</b> dog." He spat, baby blue eyes now bright, quivering pools of flickering life. </p><p>"No. I've been bathed in his blood." I gestured, stroking my hand down my abdomen, eyes fluttering almost with arousal at the tingle of my fingertips. </p><p>"Y-yeah! Haha.. Ok. Weirdo!" He shouted, laughing nervously to conceal his growing fear, perhaps connecting the dots in his vapid towhead. I stepped towards him, a smile growing on my face. A hiss of gasps escaped the mob as Frankie stood, eyes flicking nervously to avoid mine that drilled deep into his subconscious. </p><p>"I killed him just this morning. Lopped his head clean off, like butter." I spoke calmly, licking my lips hungrily. </p><p>"You don't have the balls for it, freak-boy!" He spoke up, his face taunting me with blonde brows furrowing to a crease at the center. The boys started back up with their jeering, a new wave of bravery in the face of death. I chuckled, amused; I reached and grabbed myself mockingly, the slight squeeze brought blood flooding up to my face in a newfound mixture of adrenaline and exotic arousal.</p><p> </p><p> "Oh, I'm pretty sure I do. There's really nothing to it. I've been slaughtering animals for years now. He just became too old and lame to defend himself. " I shrugged. I really didn't see how such a thing would take any excess amount of bravery. I simply had the right weapon, and was just the right amount of pissed off. Frankie stepped back a pace, large Adam's apple bobbing. </p><p> </p><p>"You..! You aren't kidding...You really did it. That's what was on you! His b-b-blood...! Your <em> own father!" </em> He sputtered, his eyes widened to frightened spheres, finger pointing accusingly, hand trembling. I lifted one brow in disbelief. </p><p>"Uh, Yeah. Murder is a sloppy job, I suppose.." I rubbed my face with my hand in exasperation. The conversation became utterly redundant. Cries of disgust and shock rang out around me. </p><p>"He doesn't even <em> care!" </em> </p><p>"This kid is royally screwed up in the head!" "Kill Em' Frankie! Send the little freak to the funny farm in the sky!" </p><p>"He doesn't <em> deserve </em> to live!" The boys all crowed, voices crying out for blood, fists balled and mouths wide with insults. I turned back to Frankie, unblinking and waited for his next move with a silent, predatory gaze. He chuckled, and looked to the crowd of pure pent-up testosterone. </p><p> </p><p>"Let's show the murdering freak what we do to little mental-case geekazoids, boys!" Frankie lunged at me, and I beckoned him with one hand, amused. The other boys followed behind, clenching their fists, punching the palms of their hands in a threatening motion, ready to follow their Jock-Prince's command, albeit much too frightened to even touch me. Frankie shoved me in the chest, becoming frustrated when I didn't budge. I chuckled lowly. I was feeling much more entertained now. I laced my fingers out before me and cracked my knuckles, without even the slightest hesitation I sent my fist crashing into his jaw, sending him staggering. He was pushed back towards me by the mob of bloodthirsty boys, and he punched me, likewise in the cheek, his fist skidding off the bone and grazing my ear. I sneered at his pathetic attempt and caught his fist in my hand, squeezing it so tightly I felt the bone threaten to give, his face red and pained. </p><p> </p><p>"You can call me what you will, freak, creep, geek; I don't care. I know that I'm not like you, or any of the other filthy <b> <em>rats</em> </b> that plague this school..." I spat, twisting his hand slowly so that his wrist shook with tension, tears trickled down his face as he clung to my hand, spellbound by my words. </p><p> </p><p>"... I will never understand your fascination with singling me out, but know that you will <em> regret </em> it." I said, turning my hand just that fraction of an inch hard enough to shatter his wrist. He cried out, clutching his limp wrist, fear radiating from his every pore. The crowd surged backward, clamoring in upraised voices. At that moment, I could feel the unreleased anger bubbling up inside of me. The <b>rage</b>, from all the years spent here listening to catcalls behind my back, and the source of that anger was Frankie; the mastermind of all my torment stood right before me.</p><p> </p><p> I stalked forward, with a heavy gait that could crush any filthy rodent beneath my foot, and clenched his hot throat in both hands. He gripped my forearm with his one good hand, scratching desperately as his airway slowly became constricted. He gasped for air, looked to his underlings for help. The boys who once followed him all shuffled back at my glance, falling over each other, some scrambling to the exits while others looked on in morbid fascination. I squeezed firmly, forcing him down off the edge of the mat with the weight of my body centered on my arms, pinning him beneath me, only able to squirm between my knees. He made a strained gurgle, his big, blue-ribbon prizewinner eyes bulging out and bloodshot as he pleaded for mercy, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.</p><p> </p><p> I couldn't hear a thing but for the sandbag thumping of blood rushing in my ears, I couldn't feel anything but his pulsating veins between my fingers, the blood-thick meat of his throat squeezed tightly against the hard knobs of his spine. I bashed his skull onto the shiny waxed floor, his teeth clicking, brought it back and shook him violently by the throat, slamming with all the strength in my arms and chest surging as his skull repeatedly hit the hardwood floor, head bobbing and tongue flopping out of his lips as blood exploded forth in spatters, soiling his pure, sunlight-infused locks. Then as I slammed him harder and ground his skull to the floor I felt the back of his skull give with a dull crunch and a thick pinkish fluid pooled out slowly, ran warmly from his ears and onto my clamped hands stuck in a vise grip. </p><p> </p><p>Vaguely, I could hear the far-off screaming, just barely felt hands grasping at me, to pull me away, but there was nothing that could tear me away from the emptiness that cast over his eyes, the thin trickle of blood running from his nose and down his cheek to mix with his sweat and tears. I stared deep into the growing oblivion in his pupils as they glazed over and drifted to the back of his head, his throat no longer tense beneath my grip. </p><p> </p><p>"<em> MATTHAIAS! MATTHAIAS KENNEY!!! LET HIM GO!!!" </em> Bellowed the scream of the gym teacher in my ear, as he pulled me away and shook me roughly, my head rolling around in dazed ecstasy. His cigarette hung from his lip only half smoked, time had gone by so slowly for me, but had only happened in the blink of an eye for them.</p><p> </p><p> "Oh <b>God</b> ! It's <em> too late!" </em> A garbled cry, the heightened sounds of fear as I was dropped unceremoniously onto my back, they all flocked around the dead boy, his wet, cerebral fluid splattered head lolled musclessly to the side and gazed unblinking at mine, the shed ashes of the cigarette floating on the surface of his eyes that slowly grew cloudy as I smiled at him, before I was hit in the head with a hard crack on the floor by a faint shadow above, the room spun around. A red shooting burst of pain, awareness flickering. Black. </p><hr/><p>Gravity shifts, the heat of blood flowing down into my feet as I become slowly aware of a dragging motion, the cold tightness of metal around my wrists. I blinked my weary eyes, brightness disorienting me. Something tapped me on the shoulder, then, a crack of sound exploding in my ear and the faint tingle of pain in my cheek </p><p>"I HATE YOU! YOU KILLED HIM! YOU KILLED FRANKIE, YOU BASTARD, DIE!!" <em> Crack! </em> Slapped again, I came to and grinned at the angry, now ex-girlfriend of the deceased glaring up at me. I was restrained by a throng of police officers shouting for everyone to make way. I stared listlessly, the long hallway expanding and contracting through my vision drunkenly, the girl's face only a streak of flesh color. I croaked from a dry throat quietly, growing in volume.</p><p> </p><p> "... I enjoyed giving him his death. Oh I had fun.. I had fun... I had <b>SO</b> MUCH <b>FUN</b>!!" I growled, she flinched back and screamed in fear as I was shoved forward, stumbling towards the entrance as masses of startled students created a path for me, all shouting and jeering with angry insults.</p><p> "Freak!" "Murderer!" "Rot in Hell!" "Fuck you!" "Die, Mother-fucker!" I was unaffected, only grinning deliriously. </p><p>The tall doors swung open, and I was brought out into the bright sunlight where I saw the flash of a black and white vehicle, felt myself thrust forward into the seat onto my face, they crammed my legs up into the car and slammed the door, laughing.</p><p> </p><p>"What a fucking whack job!" </p><p>"Hey, best to get him now while he's still young!" The swine guffawed, turning on the engine and blasting classic rock as the vehicle lurched, and I was able to sit up in time to see the black body bag being rolled to the waiting ambulance, the contents within stiff and unmoving. </p><p> </p><p>"I did it.. I did it!" I whispered to myself, in awe of my achievement, blissfully unafraid of the implications. </p><p>"Shut up back there!" One officer yelled, turning then chuckling carelessly. I leaned forward to the chain link separator, pressed my cheek to it and groaned. </p><p>"Just let me say goodbye. Let me give him a proper burial." I giggled, giddy with the ideas of how I would alter his body, how I would place it perhaps rigidly standing on the steps of the school like a statue of a bygone age, a memory of school pride now dead.</p><p> "You can say goodbye when you're dead. Psycho." They laughed, turning up the music even louder and I slumped backward, sitting on my cuffed hands and staring out the window listlessly. It was over, the fun was now over. Now I would face my punishment.</p><hr/><p>"Oh Matthaias, you've really done it now! I can't believe you would do this!" My mother's piercing harpy cry rang in my ears. I had my head down on the interrogation table, cuffed hands behind the chair as she whacked me about the back of my head with her purse. "You fucking idiot! I <em> knew,</em> I just knew it, you would turn out just like Harold, we should have put you somewhere back when you killed all those <em> poor </em> kittens.. " Her shrill voice shrieked, then died down to a whisper.</p><p> </p><p> I lifted my head and pleaded with my eyes, hoping that somewhere inside there was an inkling of empathy. </p><p>"Mom, it's alright. It makes no difference if there's one less of them, they're all the same. I'm telling you, he <em> asked </em> for this. He <b>deserved</b> it." I spoke, with venom infused in each word. She could not fathom this, no, she couldn't understand. </p><p>"No, No, this is not good... they're talking about juvenile detention, institutions, No, trying you as an <em> adult </em> Matthaias..! What are we going to do?! Oh, I wish your father was here.. I.. I couldn't find him..." She worried, talking less to me and more to herself as she nervously chewed her French manicure. I almost wanted to tell her where he was, to see the revulsion in her eyes, the shock of it all, but that could wait. Right now I needed her to give me <em> something </em> , but I couldn't place what <b>it</b> was. A small part of me wished she would praise my action, tell me it would all be just peaches and cream. To brush my hair back with her long nails and soothe me like she once had, long ago. I shook the distasteful thought away, snarling and looking down at the black tabletop. The door latched open, and a female police officer walked in. </p><p> </p><p>"Hello, Mrs. Kenney. We'll have to allow a day for processing the paperwork and all the witness information. For now, we can either hold your son here overnight or if you feel comfortable you can take him home, although it's not advised--" </p><p>"No need for that, he's coming home. Don't worry about us, his father will have some choice words with him, then it's straight to bed." She snapped, giving me a harsh glance from her peripheral. I had to hold back my shit-eating grin and give the best puppy eyes I could muster. The officer and her both observed me, with that tiny flicker of fear and sympathy battling in their eyes. Their maternal instinct won, and with a tight smile she walked to escort me out the door.</p><p>"You're a lucky kid, most kids don't get to go home. We'll let it go for tonight...We all know wrestling accidents do happen, as unfortunate as it is. He has no prior offenses, overall from what it looks like he's got some promise if he can be relocated to an institution for The Gifted...A safe, supervised environment." </p><p> </p><p>My mother nodded eagerly at this, taking the pamphlets and placing her hand over the rookie officer's shoulder. "Oh, I can't thank you enough! His father won't go easy on him, after this he'll never hurt a hair on another student's head again. You hear that Matty? You just <b>wait</b> and see when your father hears of this, you're going far away. For <b>good</b>. " She snapped bitterly, turning away to walk ahead of me. </p><p> </p><p>I was guided out of the tiny room and into the swarming police station, where the grieving family of Frankie sat on a bench blotting their eyes, not noticing the slayer of their precious son being uncuffed and let right out the door. <em> Free </em>. I rolled my shoulders, flexing my wrists where tension had built up from the long wait in the small room where they fingerprinted me and took my photo, asking me a series of questions which I smartly turned around to sound like as she said, a simple wrestling incident. My mother waited until the girl turned away, then tightly pinched my cheek with her nails before letting me go with a shove towards the truck, to where I rubbed my cheek and got in. </p><p> </p><p>I sat and turned away as she slammed the door closed, thrusting my hands into my pockets. I could feel her eyes on the back of my head as the truck started up.</p><p> </p><p> "He was asking for it." I repeated, even though she couldn't understand, wouldn't listen. My mother never truly tried to defend me against Joseph for all those years, in the end it was him that was comforted, he that was hurt, as I lay on the floor broken and would watch her walk away. I had lost all hope in my mother. She was simply a slave to him, obedient. She had learned ways to appease him, spreading her legs for the man, living only to please him, her mind may as well have been his with how convoluted it had become. His worthless whore, his wife, but <em> never </em> a mother. If there were such a thing as love, she did not hold it for me, no, she loved Joseph only, not even herself. She chose him, she chose him over ME, <em> her son! </em> I stewed, the thoughts rolling through my mind as the city went past. </p><p> </p><p>"Nobody <em>asks</em> to be strangled to death, Matthaias.." she said, sternly, her eyes never leaving the road, the trees that went by faster towards home. "I knew...one day you would--! I <em> told </em> Joseph...we <b>had</b> to, we should have put you away when you killed them--" she sobbed, swallowing a cry and grating her teeth. "The kittens! Those <em> poor kittens!" </em> She cried out, tears rolling down her face as I looked away, lowering my head in shame as I stared at the empty hands in my lap, wide-eyed. </p><p> </p><p>Yes, I had only been ten years old when I found myself playing with the barn cat's newborn kittens, as if they only existed for me to destroy. Nothing more than furry rats, weak mewling balls of flesh with no purpose. Only one, my entertainment. I had thrown them hard, like baseballs at the side of a metal propane tank, their soft skulls dinging off it and collapsing with a splatter of blood, until all that remained was a furry pile of broken bones. My fun having been spent, I stomped them into the dirt with my boots. </p><p> </p><p>I admit, I had been taught the meaning of guilt, it was reinforced into my young mind that I should feel guilt...but I never fully <em> understood </em> the meaning of the word. I was lashed for the first time with the bullwhip, until my small back bled, and he crushed my face into the damp furry remains, growing cold. I had screamed that I was <em> sorry </em> , I was <em> so sorry! </em> Until the punishment stopped, and I was left with the lingering question in my mind, <em> why? </em></p><p> </p><p><b>Why</b> was I sorry? Why did I feel so disgusting inside? It had been fun, and that was wrong that I enjoyed it. It hadn't made much sense, because not long after that, I began to learn how to slaughter animals and carve their meat; a process I enjoyed, and the lesson about the kittens was disregarded. I didn't see the difference between a kitten and meat. Though now, the forgotten memory came back to me full bore. I felt that alien guilt returning to my chest, it <b>was</b> shameful! It was <b>wrong!</b> The memory replayed in my mind, over and over,</p><p> <em> "It was </em> <b> <em>wrong</em> </b> <em> what you did! You're a </em> <b> <em>bad</em> </b> <em> boy, Matthaias, this is a terrible thing you've done! You should feel ashamed!" </em> Joseph's voice from the past resonated, my mother's cries, the tiny mewls, the soft fur, the sweet milk breath. It played and played until I was now wracked with Guilt. </p><p> </p><p>"You're a <b>monster</b>!" she screamed, the grating screech paining my ears, only making me sob harder. The roar of the truck deafening, as she sped down the road.</p><p> "...I told him you would only get <em> worse! </em> No little boy could do what you did, and you couldn't tell us WHY <em> it was </em> <b> <em>wrong</em> </b> <em> ! </em> Don't you <em> understand?! </em> It's not your decision who should die! That's God's Duty, not for you to dole out on those poor, helpless kittens, and now.. that boy.." she gripped the steering wheel harder, swinging the fishtailing end into the driveway with tires screeching. </p><p> </p><p>I stared at her profile, searched her for it, for that tiny gleam in her eyes that she only gave to Joseph. Love. I wanted <em> love</em>…! I wanted to be <em> comforted! </em> He was dead now, it was my turn to be loved, without him there was only me! </p><p>"Why?! Why can't you LOVE ME?!" I found my voice coming out in a pathetic, hoarse cry, reaching out and grasping her arm perhaps too hard, causing her to flinch as the truck rolled to a stop, clouds of dirt floated up from the rearview window as I gazed at her, and she flinched to attention, fear flashing across her soft powdery face. </p><p>"Of course I loved you, Matthaias. Once. When you were a sweet little baby. You came so soon, you were such a hungry child... " she shook her head, shivering, clutching her reddened arm where I had grabbed it, rubbing it.</p><p> </p><p> "But, you weren't <em> like </em> other kids..." she stuttered, her eyes round with emphasis. "You never smiled. Never laughed, never cried... No, you simply were <em> there </em> , watching me..." she turned away from my gaze, her voice growing to a horrified whisper. "Until.. <b>he</b> died.. Harold, we thought it was only fair you meet your grandfather at least once. But we had never expected you to <em> do </em> that... to cling to him.. We had to pry you away from his cold, dead hands. That is <em> not normal </em>. No. That is not the way a normal child would act, only the antichrist, only a Child of Satan..." She turned, glaring at me as if I were an abomination, my tears, only trickery. </p><p> </p><p>I felt pain welling up within me, a deep, longing hurt at her words, at the memory which I had not forgotten, I had promised to <em> always remember </em>. How I had cried, as he was taken away; his hand still reaching for mine, still curled as it was enveloped into the dark fabric of the body bag; beckoning for me to follow. After, I had chanted those words in my mind, committed his words to memory. Yes. Love was not real. Only Hasslich. I had been a fool to forget. </p><p> </p><p>"If that's true, then you should have sent me to Hell with him, instead, you punished me! You <em> abandoned me!" </em> I screamed, foolish tears now dry, I took her arms and shook her roughly. I heard the creak of the door as it fell open and she scrambled out, not looking back as she ran to the truck bed. I fumbled with my seatbelt, frantically unbuckling it and swinging open the door to meet her around the other side. Mary stood, holding the shotgun firmly above her shoulder, staring down the barrel at me as I came to a braking halt. </p><p> </p><p>"Tell me where my husband is! <b>Now</b>, Matthaias!" She demanded, her grip on the gun quivering.</p><p> "Why...he's out in the barn out back, where I left him..." I responded, dazedly; stunned that my own timid mother would go so far as to aim a gun at me. She walked me to the shed, gun in my back, each step growing with anticipation, until I finally swung open the door. Steam rolled out in great wet clouds, obscuring anything inside. A smell, it was savory, yet also foul like rotted meat that had been cooked for far too long. Something tumbled out that had been leaning against the door, and landed against my foot.</p><p> </p><p> The decapitated head; washed of any color, was now horribly disfigured, waterlogged after being thoroughly boiled until the point his skin barely clung from the bone in clumps. His eyeballs bulged out over the sockets, the slate grey irises now cloudy and pale, stretched. His tongue had cooked until it was fat and white, tendons curled up around his cheeks like clinging vines. His boiled body drained of blood lie curled, having fallen out of the overturned kettle. The pale, pink ligaments tangled and knotted together, trying to reconnect the severed bonds, where as my eyes travelled down his form, his clothes were rumpled, bleached of all color except the pale sanguine hue of blood, his limbs curled inwards, the skin shrivelled and thickened until it split and clean white bone shone through. </p><p> </p><p><em> Beautiful.</em> I thought with awe. <em> Artful</em>. I admired my work with wistful eyes, remembering fondly how he had screamed, how the blood had hit my body with a hot, thrilling splash. My thoughts were shattered by an ear splitting sound, so loud it woke me from the haze. I looked around myself in panic, remembering that Mary was also witness to the scene and found her kneeling on the ground, screaming inconsolably. </p><p> </p><p>"Mom. Mom. I had to. I had enough, don't you see? Didn't you see how he hurt me...?" I reached to touch her again, as she had done to me so many times, yet now as I returned the favor she recoiled, cringing away violently to clutch the barely attached head to her lap and sob. </p><p>"I'm.. I'm going to call the police...!" She gasped, suddenly standing and dropping the decapitated head as the tendons snapped away from the body, hands held out before her shuddering with the realization of what she had been holding.</p><p> </p><p> "And.. they'll take you away.. Forever.. where you belong..." she whimpered, tearing her eyes away from his unsightly corpse, and taking off into a clumsy run toward the house. I snapped out of my confused state, now fully alert. I picked up the discarded shotgun, and aimed it at her, shooting out a gaping hole in the back of her knee, then another that expanded in a red spatter of blood in the other. </p><p> </p><p>The blood hung in the air a moment then dissipated as she fell, howling so loud it rung throughout the woods. I gathered up the still warm pieces of Joseph's corpse, setting them down gently beside her struggling form, making sure the head sat correctly on the body with care.</p><p> </p><p> "See, it's ok. He's here now. It's alright." I coaxed gently, to calm her, but she only screamed louder, hoarser in pain as she attempted to get up on her trembling arms. I backed away from the sound, cringing. </p><p> </p><p>"You have to be quiet! Please!" I shouted, covering my face with my hands that were clammy with sweat. Shut up. I had to shut her up. <b>Now</b>. Her screaming made it difficult to think. Then, I sighted the thresher where Joseph left it this morning with the axe leaned up against it. I walked in a stiff stupor, disregarding her as I walked past and got up on the thresher, turning on the engine which only served to make her screams more shrill, made my need to quiet her more urgent. The behemoth rolled closer, as she attempted to crawl on her forearms, her blown out knee caps were completely shattered, only gaping holes remained, held on by thin strings of flesh that stretched and snapped as she crawled.</p><p> </p><p> I lowered the blade, inhaling a deep breath as it met with Joseph, making a jarring rattle as it took his body within and spat it out, and kept approaching her from my high seat where I could see her continuing to crawl, still desperately trying to get away even though now it was much too late to escape. I found her detached calves and the thresher ate them, ravenously, following the trail of blood she had leaked out across the grass, until she was under its shadow, fallen from exhaustion; or finally accepting her fate. I paused a moment, smiling. </p><p> </p><p>"You were a good wife. Unfortunately, not a good mother, but you were loyal to him. You laid down and died with him." Then I came up upon her, inch by inch allowing the thresher to feed on her, grinding her bones between its blade with a grating, dissonant rumble. One femur came loose, her skin becoming flimsy as it tangled with the blade she made only a hoarse bellow, much like the sound cattle made when shocked with a cattle prod.</p><p> </p><p> "You'll be with him in just a moment. This will hurt. You must bear your punishment." I spoke, my voice hollow. The other followed, and approached upon her back, the shadow of the thresher concealing her as it quickly made a meal of her, with a shower of hot blood on the windshield her cries finally died, lumps of her flesh crawling down the glass. I rolled to a stop and turned off the din of the machine, to be met with only silence.</p><p> </p><p> "There. Finally, it's quiet now. It's all right now." I sighed with relief, jumping down from the thresher and to the ground, strolling down the tire tracks, past the pink lumpy smear on the ground no longer relevant, only a mess that needed to be cleaned up. I hummed a jaunt ditty, hearing the pigs stirring in the barn.</p><p> </p><p> "I know, I know, I didn't forget you." I soothed, unlatching the door to the barn room to see hay dust stirring in the darkened, rich air. The sharp scent of urine assailed my nostrils, as Wilbur and Charlotte made frantic laps in their stall, snorting eagerly for their breakfast.</p><p> </p><p> "I'm coming. No need to fret, fat little porkies. I've got a treat for you. A real treat." I calmed them with my voice, rubbing one on the snout before opening the stall, so that they could make a deadly trot out into the sunlight, curled tails twitching excitedly at the scent of blood. They didn't hesitate to begin dining on the mealy pulp, smacking their mandibles happily, making content snorts as they ate eagerly upon the human slop. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This was very difficult for me to edit. I wrote this during a dark time in my life, and much of myself is in this story. Try to understand Matthaias before you judge his actions. </p><p>Please let me know what you thought down below. From this point on, I will by typing up the new chapters from my written version instead of editing.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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